A Better Kind of Pain
by barefeet01
Summary: (1) Add one sixteen-year-old girl, one snarky Potions Master, and two troubled lives. (2) Mix well over high heat, stirring counterclockwise. (3) Prepare for small explosion. Possible trigger warning.
1. Chapter 1

She'd never meant to be seen.

All she'd wanted was to breathe, to make a hairline fracture in her skin just wide enough to let her lungs expand. To peel back the masks and the makeup and the lies and stare at the one thing that marked her as a normal girl. To swirl her finger red, bring it to her lips, and taste pennies.

No, she'd certainly never wanted to be seen. Because what came next? What came next changed everything.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione Granger was not the kind of girl one might call "impulsive." As Gryffindor's female prefect, she prided herself on upholding a rigid code of conduct. This code included many things, among them her attention to detail, her perseverance, and her quest for perfection. But the first tenet of Hermione's code was self-control, and it was this, her most-valued principle, that Hermione was violating now.

This thought had crossed her mind exactly once since her footsteps had re-directed themselves towards the seventh floor. Outside the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy they'd slowed as Hermione had pivoted on the spot and begun to pace. As she'd shut her eyes and asked for a quiet spot to do something she wasn't supposed to do, she'd felt a brief pang of remorse. But as she turned for the third time and the Room of Requirement creaked into existence, she dismissed the thought. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her robes and fingering her second-favorite razor blade, she squared her shoulders and walked through the door.

The brightest witch of her age, reduced to this - pressed against the rough stone floor of the castle, one hand over her eyes and one gripping the blade. She'd already removed her school robes and yanked down her jeans, knowing as she did that marks on her thighs would be much easier to hide. _Not the brightest witch of her age for nothing, then_, she thought bitterly, clenching her fist in anger.

The bite of the razor blade into her palm elicited a sharp gasp of pain, and Hermione dropped her gaze and watched the viscous red liquid curl down her fingers and unfurl onto the floor.

As she watched her blood decorate the uneven stones beneath her, Hermione felt herself beginning to relax for the first time since she'd boarded the Hogwarts Express after her O.W.L.s. And although it was her first night back and she needed to be at the Welcoming Feast, at that moment Hermione was powerless. Trapped in the spell of her own blood, hearing only her heartbeat, Hermione caressed the blade lovingly and dipped towards her skin.

One perfect parallel line became two, and without conscious thought Hermione added a third, a fourth, a fifth, more, until the top of her left thigh was a constellation, the angry slashes dotted through with bright pinpricks of blood. Still holding the blade poised against her skin, Hermione grazed her fingertips over her handiwork, eyes shut and mouth parted, like a blind girl reading the Braille of her triumphs and mistakes.

So drunk with her own power was she, so lost in the fog of her own creation, that Hermione might not have noticed had her half-giant friend Hagrid lumbered into the room. Merlin, she probably wouldn't even have looked up had it been one of the gamekeeper's pets – with the state she was in, Hermione might've absently patted Fluffy on one of his noses before shooing him away. All things considered, the slight man before her was really almost too easy to overlook. But then –

"My, my, my, Miss Granger. Up to something, are we?"

The dry, sibilant tone of the Potions Master echoed across the room.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sir!" She gasped. "I, I, I was just –"

He raised his eyebrows, and the lines etched in between bore testament to his censure. Hermione realized at once the futility of making excuses, and she bowed her head.

"I'll hurry along, then," she murmured, tugging her robes back into place as she pushed herself off the floor. "Can't be late for the Welcoming Feast!" The forced brightness of her voice was betrayed by her treacherous body. Light-headed, she swayed.

A pale, spidery hand reached out to steady her, and Hermione flinched in surprise as it caught her shoulder.

"Excuses can be made for the feast, Miss Granger."

Her mouth fell open. Twice in the span of a minute, this dour man had surprised her.

He turned sharply on his heel and made to leave, seemingly imbued with the certainty that Hermione would follow him. Exhausted, she did, and as she grasped the cool iron handle of the door, she couldn't shake the thought that something wasn't right. Brilliant though she might have been, there was a mystery to the Potions Master that Hermione just couldn't unravel.

SSHGSSHGSSHG

Harry and Ron would have been shaking in her shoes, but Hermione felt only a strange peace. After a stressful summer, a long train ride wearing her too-tight mask of normalcy, and a session with her razor blade that had left her stinging, raw, and dizzy, Hermione enjoyed having someone else to follow. Being told what to do – and given no choice but to comply – was a welcome break.

Her ruminations were interrupted when Snape stopped sharply in front of her. Hermione very nearly collided with the man, and she let out a small squeak. _Get it together, Hermione_, she urged herself. _You're a prefect: act like it._

One curt word cut short her mental pep talk:

"In."

SSHGSSHGSSHG

It had been a common pastime in the Gryffindor Common Room to describe Severus Snape's private quarters. Guesses were many and varied. Ron maintained that, in his words, "the Overgrown Bat probably keeps vials of blood for supper," while Seamus always insisted that Snape had students' pickled organs in jars. Harry had suggested that his windows looked out into the depths of the Great Lake, lighting the room a sickly green. Ginny, in turn, thought that maybe their professor didn't even have light _at all_ – perhaps his few candles had long ago burned down to wax. Hermione had steadfastly refused to take part in these games, preferring instead to listen in amusement as she pored over her textbooks.

But even if Hermione had been the type to while away hours in front of the roaring fire, her wildest guesses never could have approximated the sight unfolding before her eyes. Snape's rooms were much like the man himself: unassuming yet proud. His furniture was well-made and simple, never ornate, and a small fireplace cast a warm glow over the sofa, adorned with a knit afghan. His walls were lined with books, and in spite of the predicament in which she found herself, Hermione had to fight back the itch to run her fingers over their spines.

"Sit, Miss Granger."

The thin fingers gestured toward the couch, and Hermione, baffled, sank onto it. She wove her fingers though the fringe of the afghan, purposefully avoiding the eyes of her teacher. A dull scraping sound announced the Potions Master's presence, and Hermione peered through her eyelashes to see that the man had removed his cloak and brought over a chair. Hitching his trousers, Severus Snape lowered himself down, sitting backwards. He crossed his arms over the top of the seat, and Hermione found herself staring at the fine black hair that traversed his forearms until his elbows, where the remainder was hidden by the cuffs of a white button-down shirt. She blushed.

"As I'm sure a student of your caliber is aware, this behavior is unacceptable. Professor Dumbledore will need to be notified at once, and in the interim, you'll be seen by Madam Pomfrey."

The terror must have been plain on her face, because something in his dark eyes softened.

"The headmaster and Madam Pomfrey will visit you here. I thought you might appreciate the…privacy."

To her intense shame, Hermione's eyes were filling with tears. "Please, sir. You can't. I – I'll do anything! I'll study harder, make better marks, I'll stay out of trouble, anything you want! I could brew potions for you, even, or bottle supplies! I'll scrub cauldrons, I'll –"

"Enough, Miss Granger." The smooth baritone of Snape's voice rumbled through her, and Hermione shivered. "While unwise, your earlier behavior is not cause for scholastic repercussion. The headmaster will merely want to assure that you get the care you need, and that your parents are aware of the matter."

"Professor Snape, _please_. My mother's long dead and my father, well, no one needs to tell him about this. What you saw before, that was the first time. I won't ever do it again, I promise."

The quirk of a dark eyebrow showed just how little merit he gave her previous statement. "Miss Granger, you mean to tell me that, were I to examine you right now, the marks you just made would be the only ones I'd find?"

Hermione nodded her head furiously. After all, it wasn't really a lie – she'd covered up her scars with makeup this morning. And maybe, if he believed her, he'd just leave her alone.

She had sprung up from the sofa, tugged her robes over her head, and toed off her shoes before Snape found his mouth.

"What in the name of Merlin are you doing, young lady?"

But Hermione merely moved her hands to her ribbed long-sleeved tee-shirt, peeling it over her mass of bushy curls and exposing her taut stomach and white lacy bra.

"Miss Granger, I will not have this in my rooms! Stop at once!"

Hermione undid the top button on her jeans and hissed in pain as they slid down her hips, catching the newly clotted blood. But she was a Gryffindor through and through, and Hermione only bent at the middle and rode out the pain, kicking off her jeans as she did so.

She looked up to find herself standing in front of her most-feared professor, clad in only her bra and panties. A warm gush of heat down her leg told her that her cuts had opened up again, and that they'd been deeper than she'd planned. Yet she didn't care – she looked at Snape with fire in her eyes and curses on her lips, and no sooner had she drawn herself up to tell the man just _where_ he could stick all of his threats to spill her secrets than the professor had leapt to his feet and encircled her wrist with his hand.

"Foolish child!" His movements were jerky, angry, but his touch was exceedingly gentle as he lowered her onto the sofa. "Can't you see you've hurt yourself badly? Lie still."

Suddenly feeling drained of all emotion and energy, Hermione sank into the cushions and shivered, closing her tired eyes. She didn't open them when she heard the click of her professor's shoes on the wood floor, and she kept them shuttered even as cool fingertips pressed a gauze pad onto her thigh.

After a few moments, Hermione dared to open her eyes a fraction, and she watched the professor work with interest, noting that his motions were sure and smooth. It was as if Hermione were one of his potions. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he wiped the blood from her calf, her kneecap, her thigh. Drowsily, Hermione blinked as Snape wiped the concealer from the scars twisting like vines along her hamstring and quadriceps. Was it her exhaustion, or did his broad shoulders really slump at the discovery of the silvery scratches?

He relaxed the pressure on her wounds slightly and peered beneath the gauze, now soaked through with blood. Snape's dexterous fingers swapped it for a clean pad, and dipped themselves like a ladle into a clean bowl of water, dribbling it over the slashes.

"Miss Granger? I'm going to clean your cuts now, and the solution will sting upon application."

"Isopropyl alcohol," she murmured. "And here I thought it'd be a potion."

"Now Miss Granger," he intoned, as his long fingers wrapped around hers and ordered her to squeeze, "surely you know that Muggle remedies are often just as effective – if not more so – than their wizardly counterparts."

Hermione writhed against the leather cushions, willing herself to maintain the last shreds of her composure and dignity in spite of the flames licking her thigh.

"There," he said, briskly moving to swipe a healing salve over the inflamed cuts. Task nearly complete, his swift hand darted for the final gauze pad, which he'd left nestled against Hermione's hip.

Neither professor nor student was prepared for the girl's reaction.

"No, please!" Hermione's hands had flown to cover herself, and Snape stared at her in shock.

"Miss Granger, even a twit so astoundingly daft as you," he sneered, "_must_ have understood that I meant you no harm."

The hollows under Hermione's eyes showed darkly in her too-pale alabaster skin.

Snape gingerly lifted the gauze pad that had been the cause of Hermione's fright. He held it towards her as one might handle a baby Acromantula, and, dropping her gaze, Hermione pressed it on.

"Professor, I'd like to go back to my tower now." She pushed herself into a sitting position and blinked owlishly up at him.

Snape regarded the sixteen-year-old somberly. Hermione stared back. She knew he'd seen her scars, knew he understood that this had not been her first clandestine encounter with the razor. But she hoped he'd want this to go away just as much as she did – and oh, how she wished tonight had been nothing more than a dream.

"Very well." He waved a languid hand towards the door.

Hermione could have cried in relief. She had been right. Everything was going to go back to normal, everything was –

"Oh, and Miss Granger? Report here tomorrow, after the evening meal. Do not disappoint me."

SSHGSSHGSSHG

There were one hundred and forty two staircases in Hogwarts, and Hermione could've sworn she'd trudged up every one on her way to the Gryffindor Common Room. With each step, Hermione worried over the enigma that was her Potions professor.

Yet it was not until she stood in front of the Fat Lady, her sides heaving as she gasped "Dilligrout," that Hermione realized what had been niggling her all evening. When Snape had confronted her, she'd been in the Room of Requirement, a room that no one else could have entered unless they'd made of it the same request. Hermione, of course, had wanted a room in which she could do "something she wasn't supposed to."

What forbidden thing had Severus Snape been planning?


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione wasn't sure how she'd gotten through the day. Falling asleep the night before had been surprisingly easy – she'd been more exhausted than she'd thought possible. But everything since? Well, Hermione was fairly certain that even Dolores Umbridge, ensconced in St. Mungo's and dreaming to the rhythm of centaur hoof beats, was having a better day.

She'd only picked at her breakfast, even though Hermione – having read several books on nutrition – knew she needed to regain the weight she'd lost over the summer. And her classes had been the stuff of nightmares. Unable to concentrate, Hermione had sat mutely in her seat, gagged and bound by the knowledge that her most hated professor knew her secret. Even McGonagall had been worried, Hermione knew. The kindly Head of House had peered questioningly over her spectacles, and all Hermione'd had to offer her was a small smile. A pitiful disguise, of course, but she hadn't felt up to anything better.

The worst of all was dinner, which had been even harder to sit through than one of Trelawney's ludicrous Divination lectures. Hermione nearly hadn't gone – she had no appetite, and even the smell of food upset her delicate stomach.

The courses dragged by, and with each tick of her watch's minute hand, Hermione imagined a new torture Snape might implement that evening. She spent 6:01 reliving the experience of disemboweling horned toads, 6:02 visualizing a night of writing lines with a blood quill, and 6:03 shivering at the thought that maybe her stern professor would take a page out of Filch's book and hang her up by her thumbs. By 6:15, Hermione was seriously considering skipping the appointment altogether.

But at 6:25, as she was swirling her fork through her mashed potatoes, an image of a whole different sort floated to the forefront of her mind: Snape's strong hands cupping her cheek, tilting her jaw, his thin lips moving towards hers, his velvet voice moaning her name.

Her fork clattered to her plate. It was time to visit the Potions Master.

SSHGSSHGSSHG

At sixteen years of age, Hermione was mature and responsible, only a few short months away from legal adulthood in the wizarding world. Yet standing before Professor Snape's wooden desk, she might have been five again, shifting her feet and waiting anxiously for her punishment.

"Sir? Was – was there something you needed?" Her voice trembled.

"I find your evasions tiresome, Miss Granger, and for your sake I suggest you dispense with them at once."

The girl lowered her eyes and nodded.

"Look at me, child. And I'll require a verbal answer."

"Yes, sir," Hermione breathed, forcing her gaze up to the spot just above Snape's dark eyes.

"Good girl."

His long fingers twitched around the ebony of his wand, and a plain chair skittered to her side.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger."

He waited impassively until the sixth year had done so, and then he fixed her with the full force of his gaze.

"I found last night to be very curious, Miss Granger, very curious indeed."

"Sir?"

"Your primary objection was – and do not deny it – that the headmaster might owl your father." Professor Snape stood, his full six feet towering over Hermione. "Explain."

"Of course that wasn't it! Of course you could've told Dad! I wasn't afraid about _that_, certainly not, it's only that I don't want to miss any classes, you see, and I'm taking my N.E.W.T.s next year, so really I –"

But she broke off in shock, for her professor had flicked his hand and summoned parchment and a quill. "Wonderful. How shall I begin?"

Hermione's eyes were wide and afraid.

"How about this? Mr. Granger, I am writing to discuss a most peculiar discovery I've made about your daughter, Hermione." As he spoke, his right hand scratched the words onto the yellowing parchment. "I recommend," he droned, his eyes darting up to hold hers, "that you pay a visit here, to the castle, where we may discuss this in person."

"_No_." Hermione's voice wavered, breaking slightly in the middle. "Sir, you _can't_."

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission, Miss Granger. Furthermore, you just told me yourself that –"

"I _lied_, okay, Professor?" She exhaled gustily. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Miss Granger. You will apologize at once."

Hermione murmured her apology, feeling a fierce burning in her throat. She swallowed the tears threatening to spill, and thought longingly of her four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower.

"You will cease this flippancy, and you will never interrupt me – or another professor – again. You'll find that the consequences will be…most severe."

"I really am sorry, sir."

He nodded. "You've put me in a difficult position, Miss Granger. Self-harm –" Snape watched her flinch as he spoke plainly "- is a serious problem and will not disappear on its own. Yet you are recalcitrant to obtaining help through the established protocol."

Hermione looked up at her professor, eyes shining.

He spoke quietly. "It seems I hold the whip hand here, Miss Granger. That said, I will present you with two choices. You will pick the one with which you wish to proceed. Once you have made your decision, it will stand and you cannot change your mind."

Hermione looked up curiously. That sounded like a challenge, and there was nothing the studious girl loved more than challenges.

"The first is obvious: I will summon Madam Pomfrey and the headmaster, who will send word to your father. You will comply with whatever course of treatment they suggest."

Snape had not finished his first sentence before Hermione began shaking her head.

"I'll take the other choice! Sir. The other one, please, sir."

The professor looked down his hooked nose at her, and Hermione thought she could detect scorn and a dash of dark humor in his eyes.

"Miss Granger, I have yet to tell you the _second_ option. Kindly allow me to proceed."

She blushed, chagrined.

"This option is fairly…irregular. I will keep news of your – indiscretion – between us, and in return, you will do as I say."

The intrigue was evident on Hermione's face. Surely this was the punishment phase. He'd keep her secret, and in exchange, she'd scrub all of his floors with a toothbrush – or her tongue, even. She'd do anything.

He cleared his throat and continued his speech. "You will – effective immediately – hand over your razor, and you will cease to harm yourself. You will eat three full meals in the Great Hall with your yearmates, you will report to my office every weekday evening after supper, and you will _never_ lie to me again."

Unfazed, Hermione blinked up at her professor.

He raised his eyebrows. "And if you violate any part of our agreement, I will punish you."

Hermione wrinkled her brow. "But sir, Hogwarts' regulations clearly state that house points can only be deducted and detection assigned for an action that violates school code."

"Obviously, Miss Granger. Your precious house points are safe from me."

Confused, Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Snape held up a long finger.

"Miss Granger, if you do not comply with the rules exactly as I've laid them out…you will receive a spanking."


	5. Chapter 5

Spanking. A _spanking_. As in, her Potions professor was going to _spank_ her if she didn't follow his rules? Ridiculous. She shook her head slightly, adjusting to this strange reality. Hermione had never even really been spanked before. Sure, her father had punished her as a child, but he hadn't been the spanking type. He had his routine down: at the slightest provocation, his left hand reached for her hair and dragged her to the wall while his right hand fumbled for his belt. And Merlin, those whippings had been painful, but Hermione had never felt _punished_, per se.

She thought the point of a punishment was to atone for one's actions and then, if her mates from primary school were to be believed, to feel better afterwards. But Hermione had never felt any remorse, because most of her "punishments" were unjustified. It was utterly embarrassing and not something she'd have admitted to anyone, but Hermione had often dreamt of being spanked. Not because she wanted the pain, she wasn't daft, but rather because she wanted someone to care. She wanted someone to be so furious that she'd done something wrong that he'd punish her for her own good, but calmly, never in anger, and then she wanted to be forgiven afterwards. Hugged, even.

But those had been childhood dreams, the pathetic fantasies of one who was small and desperate for love, and Hermione wasn't like that anymore. The thought of her most-feared professor actually spanking her brought only disbelief and panic.

"Sir?" She breathed, hoping she'd heard him wrong.

Professor Snape did not speak, did not even breathe. His onyx eyes glittered ominously in the light.

Hermione knew there was only one choice to make, and she closed her eyes. "The – the second option, sir. Please."

"Very well." The baritone rumbled over her, and she shivered. "Do you have any questions, Miss Granger?"

_Will it hurt?_ The thought pushed against her lips, but Hermione didn't quite have the courage to voice it. "I….I, no, sir. No questions."

Snape settled back into his chair. "Then we begin today."

"Begin, sir?"

"Your appointments. I did order you to report to my office every night of the school week, did I not? Was I not clear?"

Flustered, Hermione stammered "You did, sir, I – I – I mean you were, sir."

The professor settled back into his chair and steepled his long fingers. "Very well. We shall start, fittingly, at the beginning. Tell me, Miss Granger, why do you harm yourself?"

Heat flooded her cheeks – Hermione had never heard her problem being spoken of so plainly. "I don't know, sir."

"You forget you are speaking with a master of Occlumency and Legilimency,"  
the professor sneered. "I can hear the lie in your voice, girl, and I will not tolerate it. Try again."

Hermione shifted in her seat, verifying that her bottom was well-covered in case Professor Snape decided to make good on his threat. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I don't know how to answer you. I'm sorry, sir." Tears brimmed her brown eyes, but Hermione resolved not to let them fall.

To her surprise, Snape didn't yell. He didn't sneer, he didn't glare, and he certainly didn't punish her. If anything, his eyes softened, and when spoke, Hermione was sure she'd never been more astonished. "This is hard, Miss Granger. I understand that. You're a bright girl – I suppose you've been wondering why I've taken such a personal and unorthodox approach?"

Hermione nodded tentatively. _A bright girl_. Had he meant that?

"Come here." Snape shifted in his seat, drawing nearer to the light cast by a nearby lamp. Hermione crept over, and at his beckoning, moved closer still. And as Snape rolled up his sleeve, she gasped. Crossing the professor's upper arm were hundreds of scars, thick and jagged. They marred his skin completely; not an inch was left unblemished. She thought that they'd be invisible otherwise, if not for the lamp throwing shadows into their pitted depths.

Reflexively, Hermione gagged, and embarrassed herself thoroughly when she vomited. She was vaguely aware of a quiet voice uttering the cleaning incantation and conjuring a bowl and a cool flannel.

The spell passed a few moments later, and Hermione trusted herself to speak. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Perfectly alright. One cannot always control the involuntary reactions of one's body."

"No, I also meant, for, you know -" Hermione jerked her head at the professor's arm, covered once again by a black robe sleeve. She now understood the reason for their omnipresence.

Snape cleared his throat. "Your concern is unnecessary. I did not intend to garner sympathy, but rather to cultivate understanding. You have surmised the origin of my strong feelings about the subject, I assume?"

She nodded.

"Consequently, you shall put forth more of an effort in these sessions. If you truly do not know an answer, we will explore it together."

Hermione nodded again.

"Then Miss Granger, I ask you again: why do you cut yourself?"

"I suppose I like the feeling, sir."

He inclined his head. "Well done. How does it make you feel?"

Basking in the rare praise, Hermione spoke more easily. "Like I'm flying, sir. Or rather, like my soul is, but my body's on the ground. Like I've peeled off my dirty, tight skin and I'm above everything. When I'm cutting, I'm ethereal but also so human – seeing my blood splash across my skin reminds me that I can bleed, and that regardless of my imperfections, I'm still alive, still a person, I guess. Was that – was that what you meant?"

He rewarded her with another nod. "You use the word 'imperfections.' Of what, specifically, are you speaking?"

"I, just, well, _everything_, sir!"

"Miss Granger, you are unquestionably one of the most intelligent students Hogwarts has seen in decades. You are a prefect, seem to have a few friends, and have contributed much to the cause of the Light. Forgive me my confusion."

Hermione flinched as the professor's sarcasm cut through her. "People aren't always, you know, happy with me. So that's what I mean, I guess. The imperfections they see."

Snape titled his head to the side, stroking his cheekbone with an index finger. "Elaborate."

Her voice was small, cowed, nothing like the commanding tones she used in class. "Please don't make me."

Hermione waited a long minute, afraid to look at Snape. Then: "We will resume tomorrow. Be grateful for the reprieve, Miss Granger. They won't always come so readily."

SSHGSSHGSSHG

Although she was exhausted, Hermione made a beeline for the girls' lavatory upon leaving Snape's office. Here she emptied the contents of her stomach, washed out her mouth until she could hardly taste the acid, and locked the door. Sinking heavily to the floor, she lifted her robes and tugged down her jeans, itching to cut. Her razor was how she dealt with stress, and Hermione had never been more stressed here at Hogwarts – not when Voldemort was after the stone, not when a basilisk was roaming the halls, not even while Umbridge held court in Dumbledore's office.

But she wasn't allowed to cut. Professor Snape had been infuriatingly clear on that. So Hermione settled for second best – she positioned the pad of her thumb over the gauze and pushed hard. The pain came suddenly, so intense that she tightened her calf muscles and arched her neck, riding it out. When she looked down again, Hermione was pleased to see that the gauze was now soaked with crimson.

Back in her element, Gryffindor's prefect dampened a paper towel and cleaned the floor, disposing of the evidence. She straightened her robes and splashed water on her face, and then set off for the tower, never once thinking of Snape's reaction if he learned of what she'd done.


End file.
